


five roads that lead to the same place

by skitty_titty



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Brotherhood: Final Fantasy XV, Gen, Matures Themes, lapslock, warnings in the notes.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 06:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16012211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skitty_titty/pseuds/skitty_titty
Summary: in which, prompto struggles and no one is there to catch him.





	five roads that lead to the same place

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for this chapter:   
>  -child neglect (could be perceived as child abuse)   
>  -weight issues (not fatphobia, but self-hatred)   
>  -being touch/affection starved   
>  -minor passing out/death mention   
>  -suicidal thoughts  
> -eating disorder (mentioned throwing up)  
> -detailed descriptions of the effects depression has on someone  
> -accidental suicide attempt (and, obviously, hospitals)  
> -minor self-harm reference  
> -hinted at transphobia (easy to miss)
> 
> take these warnings seriously, even if it says minor/hinted at.

only once the knife is by his toes and there’s a hand in his, does he realise what he was about to do.

he takes a step back and-- and he realises it hurts.

and, god, he has not felt that in so long.

 

//

 

prompto has five problems. there’s more, but five main problems. five things he looks at and goes “that’s where something is wrong”. there’s more, but they’re not - like - _important_ problems. they’re the ones that everyone deals with, and that means that they’re not special, not really _problems_.

the first is one prompto wouldn’t really consider something that bothers him: family.

his parents are home for two weeks, and gone for the rest of the month. they have a decent income, which only dips every two or three years (low enough to have his father sat over the kitchen table, while his mother’s sobs echo from the bathroom) but overall, it’s okay.

when they leave, it feels the exact same as when they’re here.

yeah. they’re his parents. but they’re more like friends. distant friends. friends of friends, who you’ve met once at a party but have never tried to call, even if their phone number is programmed into your phone.

they’re his parents. he knows their names, their birthdays, things that they do and don’t like.

but behind it, there’s the fact they don’t like him. like, they’d never admit it. because they _believe_ they love their son, but they don’t because he’s foreign and they. they can’t accept it, it seems.

they are kind and act as parents should, and yet everything they say is harsh and every word feels like a stab wound. so he doesn’t visit them when they’re here, and an empty house just means there’s less rooms he has to avoid.

and it’s not a major problem because he’s used to it. i mean, growing up with distant parents from turning eight, six, maybe even four, isn’t something that he hasn’t adjusted to. prompto knows he’s hard to love and can’t fault them for it.

it hurts, both him and them, so he figures it’s better if he stays away for a while.

 

//

 

the second is prompto’s weight.

he knows that there’s nothing wrong with being fat, or even chubby because he knows he hasn’t reached any extremes. he knows this, but he still pokes at his tummy. watches the hanging fat off his arms wiggle in the mirror, as he attempts to tame his hair. holds his thighs in his hand, wondering why they’re so big.

most days it doesn’t bother him, so it’s not really that serious. he likes food, _unhealthy_ food, and prompto feels bad for buying the healthy stuff because it’s expensive and he never ends up finishing it, which means he gets scolded by his parents.

they stop buying the fucking lettuce.

so prompto figures. hey, the paper round is a good way to both earn money and exercise, right? so he goes through the process of being hired, starts along with his first day at school, first day of the new year, last year at secondary.

he hates it.

he wakes up at half six, but finds he’s not awake enough by then; he sets an alarm at half five, and then at six, and finally half six because it takes just that to even get him started.

he has a routine. turn the first two alarms off. get out of bed on the third. don’t change any of your clothes, because you did that before bed (ignore the fact you’ve been sleeping in them for six hours). don’t even touch your hair, because you’ll find it's greasy and untamed. only fix it later when you’re sixteen minutes into the job and you notice your reflection in someone else’s door.

stuff the paper in. leave.

hope that it’s not raining.

it always is, on the days that you desperately need it not to.

so. from the job, he gets money. he staches this away somewhere, promising he’ll spend it on something good but knowing full well he doesn’t love himself enough to justify “treating” himself.

he gets money and he gets exercise. it doesn’t change a goddamn thing.

 

//

 

prompto’s third problem is that he’s lonely.

someone once told him that being neglected is a form of child abuse. prompto laughs. his parents don’t neglect him, he’d say. i’m a teenager, of course, i spend time in my room.

and the other person would laugh, because that’s all he is. a teenager. a hormonal, way-too-emotional fuck who cries whenever someone yells a little too loud. prompto does not like school.

neglect, though. not being touched enough. weird how humans basically thrive off touch; a baby without touch will not survive. a baby without touch is a baby without love, and love keeps a lot of things going.

prompto knows the closest he’s been to a person is when the optician leans in to change the lense in his glasses, asking whether one or fucking two is clearer when they’re both the fucking same debra honestly i’m blind and this isn’t helping; or when a teacher leans in to check his work, and they place their red-nailed hand just below his shoulder, providing a nice smile and a few ticks, before she’s off to the next student.

it’s been a quiet day (and by that it means that he saw no dogs on the way home), and prompto lies in bed, just thinking.

realistically, if he were a person he could admire, he’d be doing homework and would also be the top of his class right now, but he’s basically failing every subject even if his parents believe he’s doing alright, so he lies there. because he knows he’ll never be able to admire himself, and has no energy to even try and change. won’t even try because he knows it won’t come overnight.

he ends up online, and he’s scrolling until he sees a web page.

“[ Are You Touch Starved? ](https://sashacagen.com/quirky-alone/touch-starved/)” it says. prompto pauses. “Hugs and tango can help”

he clicks on it, but the text seems to long and boring for him to read. instead, he searches “what is touch starvedness”

a site called quora comes up; a page with the question: “[ What is being touch starved? ](https://www.quora.com/What-is-being-%E2%80%9Ctouch-starved%E2%80%9D)” written at the top. it has multiple replies, but the first one has been voted most popular.

it says that some people like hugging, and some don’t. some use handshakes. some people kiss others, and some hold hands. others don’t need touch at all, but don’t mind it; some prefer personal space, but will open up eventually.

it says that you’re touch starved if you need more touch than your friends and family are comfortable with. if you don’t get the touch you need, and have nowhere to get it, then you’re the one who suffers, not them.

prompto remembers the symptoms from the other page. could be having trouble sleeping. might feel anxious, or drowsy. you might shy away from the touch you need, because you’re not used to it or something has happened and now touch equals bad and there’s nothing you know how to do to change it. you might lean into touch, almost desperate, with strangers, with teachers, with anyone who is there.

then he remembers the last sentence of the second site.

“It’s not fatal.” it reads.

prompto reads that. and reads it over. it’s not fatal, so he’ll be fine. he doesn’t need the touch, right?

that night, he lies there, the ring of “it’s not fatal, it’s not fatal, you’re fine, you’re fine” repeating through his mind. maybe he only has four problems after all.

he falls asleep when it turns two. he’ll be up in three hours anyway.

 

//

 

depression isn’t something you can really describe, prompto has found. this leads us to his fourth problem.

he’s tried many a time.

he’s in his first year of college now, a whole seventeen year old. he thinks back to how cool he thought this would be when he was a child, and is disappointed; he can’t tell whether it’s because his childhood imagination made this a lot cooler, or because he doesn’t care about anything anymore.

prompto has a friend now. the prince of lucis. how he manages that, he’ll never know, but he’s thankful all the same. the astrals have had plenty of praises for it, because he knows that it isn’t him who managed it.

his parents are gone more often now, their trips lasting two months instead of one; four weeks instead of two. he’s skinnier, but at what cost; he eyes the food he eats and has to debate whether it’s really worth keeping down. he hasn’t been to the opticians in years, orders his contact lenses online, and college professors aren’t the type to casually lean in and check whether everything’s okay.

he manages. you know how it is.

he works at a cafe around the corner from his house, that lets him base his hours around his college schedule, but he’s still up at five. his body clock is permanently set, so it seems. he’s taken mathematics, sociology, photography, and a joined english lit-and-lang course. he thinks he likes it, but he can’t really tell anymore.

as i said, depression is indescribable.

it attacks whenever it wants.

when you’re halfway through a lesson, and you get the sudden urge to go to the toilet and sit there. stay there. wait there until you die, or someone finds your passed out body and takes mercy.

when you’re at your friends house, sitting at the other side of the couch because they like their space and you’re too scared to ruin it. it’s their turn with the controller, because you were both excited for the new single player game of the series but only one of you can afford it, but suddenly you’re too drained and turn it down when he offers you a go.

when you’re at home, already in bed, but make an effort to snuggle deeper. there’s two lectures waiting for you, and a nice four hour shift in between. if prompto manages to smother himself in his pillow, does he still, legally, have to go? he’s planning on finding out.

there’s a knock at his door, this time, though.

prompto doesn’t answer. it’s not his parents, because they wouldn’t knock, and the postman knows to leave the packages behind the bins where prompto will collect them after everyone is long gone.

he ignores it, even if there’s a feeling in him that knows it is important.

it knocks again, louder this time. he doesn’t think he can make himself move.

and then, suddenly, he hears the front door unlocking. he sits up bolt upright, fuelled with sudden energy. it’s not his parents. the postman doesn’t need to be inside. a thief wouldn’t have a key.

noctis? he wonders, but noctis would have texted, and a brief look at his phone assures him that he’s got royal duties. this also rules out ignis, who is almost a permanent fixture by his side. it could be gladio, but there’s no reason for him being there, unless noctis had decided to visit, because prompto’s house still wasn’t classed as a place the prince could hang out without some supervision.

but. a voice yells up the stairs. it’s familiar and one of a stranger all at the same time. it says one word, just his name, but it feels so soft and kind that prompto starts to feel okay. he shuffles out of his bed, the quilt still wrapped tight around him, and he unlocks his bedroom door.

he blinks at the light that streams out on the landing, coming through his parents’ empty room. when he can finally see, if it is still a little blurry because he’s wearing neither his glasses nor contacts, he realises that it is cor.

cor the immortal.

cor the immortal, or marshal leonis - as noctis calls him. noctis is terrified of him, and even ignis seems hesitant around him. prompto can’t even bring himself to care.

“waddup.” he says, and rubs at his eyes. “why are you here?” he asks, not even a second later, because he’s confused and would really like to go to bed now the initial excitement is over.

“the prince was worried, and i was passing through the area. i told him i’d step in.”

“noct? noct was worried?”

“in case you didn’t notice - and, by the looks of you, you probably didn’t - it’s four in the afternoon. you missed both college and work.”

“oh.” prompto says. he’ll be disappointed in himself later but he doesn't care right now. “can i go back to bed, or do you need something?”

“go back to sleep, kid.” he says, and prompto makes to shuffle off. “i’ll bring you some food up in a bit.”

“you don’t have to.” prompto says, his voice quiet and he lies back down.

it’s quiet. almost too quiet for him to hear but he catches it, before the footsteps start moving away.

“but i want to.” it says. prompto can't comprehend why, so he closes his eyes and swiftly fades away.

 

//

 

his bedroom is empty. cor is gone, but there’s a plate that holds a sandwich and prompto’s favourite apple juice drink. he wonders how cor knew. then again, parents who were meant to be parents have a knack for guessing correctly.

he looks around his room, and it is empty. both of life and of. life, i guess.

his furniture is all white, the floor is grey, and the walls are blue. it’s the same colour as he always remembers it being, even if his parents told him it used to be pink. the shelf that he has is basically empty, other than some school textbooks and the one story he’d actually saved up and bought: a random poetry book that he read once and ended up scribbling his thoughts on, never to open it again.

there’s no decoration on the wall, no pictures or anything that proves it is his own. a piece of homework lay on his desk, a few scattered pens around it, but everything else is tidy. immaculate. almost as if there was no one living in it.

now, after someone has been by his side, however briefly, the loneliness that he feels really settles in, clinging to his bones and wedging itself under anything it can find. it is here, and it is here to _stay_.

 

//

 

when there is someone by his bedside, as he sits in the white room, unblinking, they’ll cry and ask why. why would he do this. why didn’t he tell them.

and he’ll look down from where he’s tracing patterns into the ceiling. look down at them, look them in the eyes.

he’ll think of how to say “i tried”. it was on the tip of my tongue. every time i saw you, i wondered how i could plead for help, plead for mercy. i’d plan speeches. i’d write letters. i’d throw my wrists in your face, or show you my collection of scars, or collapse at your feet and beg, but the words were on the tip of my fucking tongue, acidic.

he’ll think all this, but only say: “you wouldn’t have understood.”

and everyone in the room takes a slight step back and a deep breath.

he had gone somewhere they could not follow. somewhere they couldn’t understand.

**Author's Note:**

> links to the included websites:   
>  https://sashacagen.com/quirky-alone/touch-starved/  
> https://www.quora.com/What-is-being-%E2%80%9Ctouch-starved%E2%80%9D


End file.
